


Rivers Cannot Wash it Away

by stardropdream



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: M/M, Minor Violence, Period-Typical Racism, Pre-Series, Religious Imagery & Symbolism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-07
Updated: 2014-07-07
Packaged: 2018-02-07 22:06:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1915593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardropdream/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Porthos first meets Aramis, he does not know what to make of him. But then, Porthos does not know what to make of himself, either.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rivers Cannot Wash it Away

**Author's Note:**

> Pre-series Porthos/Aramis fic, mostly just another presentation of their early relationship. Didn't quite turn out how I expected, but I'll take what I can get since I've been battling a writer's block. Also blink and you'll miss the brief foreshadowing to Athos.

There are two things, somewhat contrarily, that Porthos has learned in his life, in both the Court and in the walls beyond. Contrarily, he has learned – how to blend in and how to stand out both, as simple as the blending of water, as simple as breathing. It used to bother him how easy it was for him to be overlooked, to go unnoticed and invisible, as if he were not worth noticing, nothing more than a fixture to a wall or a lame horse left in the stable – immediately set apart and forgotten, unimportant and unresolved. And it used to bother him even more that even the simplest of steps out of line would snap all eyes onto him, cold, uncaring, and precise – always searching for the ways in which he will fumble and prove his unworthiness – always searching for the king up his sleeve, for the stolen money purses, for the inability to follow orders, inability to be obedient, inability to learn, to prove himself, to do anything. The inability. 

Joining the musketeers, new recruit and all, after years of struggling to gain the notice of the king, even long after he’d gained the notice of the captain, who has done nothing but show him support, he finds that his life is that strange mix of unnoticed and impossible to ignore. He fought hard to earn his commission, and this position, and he’s not about to squander it – but still, it is an adjustment. In his years, he has learned to build himself up, to fill in the spaces that others would sooner see as empty air – to be the man against the wall rather than the wall itself, hands tucked into his belt so his elbows splay out away from him – and he is large and tall and intimidating. He never smiles, never at first, and he wears the clothes he’s had for years (stolen at one time, perhaps; he hardly remembers now) that he knows will mean eyes snap to him. His footsteps fall heavy and defined, all with the intention of calling attention. And when he does laugh, it is loud and booming and attention-grabbing. His approach in a world that cares little for him, in a world that will either ignore him or stare at him, is to simply call the attention himself, purposefully. 

So he steps each day into the garrison, loud and forthcoming, and he makes sure that they see – and it becomes the routine. He glares, he scoffs, he snorts – loud enough that it becomes second-nature, to the point that he doesn’t realize he is being loud and commanding attention, simply being – it becomes him. He becomes these identities – things that once did not belong to him – and they become him, until it stops feeling that it is a reaction to the world around him, and rather the expression of who he is. When he spars with the other new recruits, it is only second nature to dig his shoulder hard into his opponent’s stomach, toss him easily over his shoulder and throw him hard to the ground like he’s nothing more than a sack of grain. It is second nature. 

He isn’t here to make friends, though, wouldn’t know how to make friends even if he could. His heart is still bleeding to think of Flea and Charon, still back in the Court, still having refused to come with him, to follow him or set their own paths beyond those constricting, claustrophobic hallways and alleyways of the Court. To think of Flea is to especially squeeze his heart in a sense of loneliness and betrayal he knows he has no right to feel – for he is the one who left, he is the one to turn from them and not look back save for reminiscing. Still, he’d hoped, more than he’d realized, that they would come with him. It’d taken everything he had to leave the Court of Miracles – and he’ll be damned if he ever goes back. And yet, Flea and Charon were less friends as they were constant companions in his life after losing his mother, after being left alone in the Court – they simply became an extension of him in a way he fears no one will be able to recreate, or even if he’d want someone else to. And he finds he has no means or abilities to know how to befriend anyone, for it was less effort on his part and more necessity that he should have grown with them in the first place. 

He regards any politeness the other recruits or the veterans of the musketeers show him as false, and after the first few weeks, they hardly speak with him more than beyond necessity – and it’s just as well, for it’s what Porthos expected when he joined. Still, it is a disappointment, when he’d placed so much hope and so much esteem in the musketeers – and worked hard to earn his commission from the king. It is not that they believe he does not belong – for anyone who has seen his skills would be quick to keep his mouth shut, should they feel he were inferior to them. But it is clear that he has not found the niche he had hoped for. It isn’t enough to make him regret his decision, as he’s grown used to a life in which he doesn’t belong anywhere. At least here, he can earn coin honestly and honorably, and perhaps work to protect his king. There is honor in that, at least. 

He spends his nights drinking with what little coin he has, and other nights cheating at cards to earn more. And sometimes, when the laughter around him from the groups and clusters of old friends who find comfort and ease in one another’s company becomes too much, he returns to his modest housing provided for the regiment and struggles over words in long-stolen books until he can commit something as deceptively simple as the alphabet to his memory. He’s set the goal for himself to learn it by the end of the month. 

And thus the first few weeks pass for him – in which he trains, he eats and drinks at the taverns, teaches himself the painstaking task to read (where the noble-born men he trains with take such a luxury for granted, reading their missions as if it is as easy as breathing – and Porthos envies and covets but keeps his head ducked down, works on the curve of his punch instead and devotes his attentions to letters and words in the dead of night), and passes his days in solitude. He’s never spent this long not talking, but there’s perhaps some comfort in solitude – some comfort on just being himself, not having to prove himself or fake pleasantries. He was never good at talking. 

He is a stranger and, of course as ever, visibly _different_. Foreign. Wrong. It’s just as well – even with Flea and Charon by his side, he felt he would rot in the Court. He felt he’d never have belonged, never have been happy. And here, it is the same – and he does his best to ignore any stares thrown in his direction, liking to believe it is because of his skills as a soldier, untrained perhaps but present, rather than anything that sets him apart as _different_. 

It’ll be some time before he is assigned to actual missions – still too green and inexperienced in the ways of soldiery – but he has time. He spends the nights struggling over words that a high-born king would know by his fifth summer and telling himself it will be worth it all, in the end. 

 

\---

 

It is several months in and it is early morning in the garrison. He is chewing on breakfast of an unspecified food substance – some kind of meal, at least – when a man drops down across from him. He doesn’t glance up, because there are often times that others will attempt the small talk and politeness that he so loathes, and it’s better to ignore them until they go away – and barring that, a heavy-set glare will often send them well on their way. There are worse times when men drop down into the seats near him and talk with each other, effectively ignoring Porthos. In these moments, he tends to just make himself as large and intimidating as possible, until the men eventually trail off. So he ignores the man before him, knowing he will leave eventually. 

“So we truly have to work on your aim, as I can’t help but notice that when practicing with the musket, you prefer your right eye. I suppose that wound over your left must give you some visibility issues, but I really must insist that you keep both eyes open when aiming. Trust me on that.” 

Porthos chews on his food, expecting that any moment now the man speaking to him will lose interest, as they always do, and go. When the man makes no move of getting up, he looks up and finds a handsome, smiling face looking back at him. Upon meeting his eyes, the man lifts a hand to his hat and tips it up, his smile widening further. 

Porthos scowls, almost considers looking behind him for the person this man is speaking with, but doesn’t if only because he knows such an action is ridiculous and would only cause the other to ridicule him for it. 

“And,” the man continues on, as if they are truly having a conversation and Porthos isn’t blatantly ignoring him, “I’ve had my eyes on that weapon of yours and I _really_ must insist that I teach you proper cleaning technique.” 

Porthos’ shoulders stiffen up, his hand falling down to the gun holstered at his side, defensive without speaking a word and slowly narrowing his eyes as he stares at the table. Proper maintenance of his weaponry has been something the captain has reminded him of, point-blank, several times and he thought he’d been getting better at it. Evidently not, if he’s still worth of ridicule from a complete stranger. 

The bench beneath him lets out a yawning creek as he shifts, lifting both hands to rest deceptively light on the table. It is another tactic he has adopted – don’t let them see your rage. He eyes the man across from him, unable to determine if the smile he’s sending in his direction is sincere or merely polite, or, worse, mocking. Waiting for the punchline. His experience tells him it is polite, but lacking. It’s hard to get a read on him, though, considering he is a stranger, speaking to him as if he is an old friend. His eyes are glittering as he tilts his head, clearly waiting for Porthos to speak. 

“It’ll fire much more cleanly if it’s, well, properly cleaned,” he continues. 

Porthos’ hands slowly curl into fists and he tips his chin back a little, leaning back on the bench and waiting – waiting for that smile to drop, waiting for the politeness to fade, waiting for this man to get up and leave him the fuck alone. 

“Don’t need your charity,” he finally says. 

“Ah, so you do speak,” he returns, and beams wider – and now that he’s smiling more, Porthos can tell that it isn’t an insincere or cruel smile, and the words themselves are light and inconsequential, where on anyone else it would sound like a damnation or mockery. 

All the same, Porthos glares, allows the full force of his anger to color across his face. The surest way to send him on his way. 

And it is perhaps the first time in his life that a man has not averted his gaze or backed away from the look. Instead, the man tilts his head, as if surveying Porthos for the first time. His smile lightens, but not from the force of any bruised egos. 

Porthos begins to suspect that perhaps the man is not all right in the head. He’s grown too used to being ignored, as if he is a piece of the regiment itself, or a lame animal unworthy of notice – and more used still to the deliberate ignoring he receives, as if the other recruits are purposefully trying to not look at him. This man looks him in the eyes and does not turn away. Porthos feels half studied and half unstable under the gaze, and he is uncertain if it is relief or frustration he feels to find someone looking at him as if he is real, and breathing. 

Not breaking his gaze, the man drops his hand to his side, slowly draws his pistol from his own holster, and without even breaking his gaze to cast his weapon a soft look, he begins to dismantle and clean the pistol as if it is the most reverent thing he has ever held, a piece of God Himself. Porthos’ brow furrows and the man before him merely lifts his eyebrows. 

“Watch carefully,” he says to Porthos, and it is not a command so much as it is an invitation, and his eyes are glittering in the soft morning light. “Don’t take your eyes off of what I do.” 

And Porthos does not want to be the one to drop his eyes away from the long stare they’ve been holding, doesn’t want to admit defeat in that way – and so he merely holds the man’s gaze as he cleans his pistol, only able to see the way he works from his peripheral, the subtle and reverential way he touches at the weapon, the gentle way in which he soothes across the barrel, cleans away the excess gunpowder and grit. 

“Your left eye doesn’t open as widely as the right,” he says after great length, and Porthos does not startle but there is a moment when his breath stops if only because the sudden words come as a surprise. The man shrugs at whatever expression Porthos must make, working diligently at cleaning the pistol before him. “Is that perhaps why you favor one side over the other, when fighting?” 

Porthos says nothing, because he cannot pinpoint whether it is genuine curiosity, pity, or small talk. None of which he is certain he wants. 

There is a wan smile as reply, and the man seems unbothered by Porthos’ silence. He watches him with an intensity that doesn’t seem to suit his face, and yet curves across the sharp corners of his jaw and cheekbones with precision. Observation. Intensity. It befits a musketeer, and one who clearly favors gunship as a weapon. All the same, Porthos feels exposed – vulnerable for the first time. Or, at least, vulnerable in a way that sits too close to home. 

“Another time, I’ll show you,” the man finally concludes, and smiles a little, tilting his head as he watches him. He studies his face for a long moment, and then his smile lilts a little, self-depreciating and gentle. “It’s alright, you know. You’re your own man. Tell me to fuck off, if that’s what you wish.” 

Porthos stares him down, bemused, still unsettled and uncertain how to react to this man. 

He seems to sense as much, though, because his sharp lips quirk upwards into a tiny smile. “Or perhaps that is the same as giving an order, too. So what are you to do? Follow an order to tell me to go away, or ignore the order in favor of sitting here through a conversation you do not wish to have? Either way, it will be to spite me.” 

“The hell you want from me?”

He shrugs, pursing his lips together in thought. “Perhaps I’ve seen the way you fight, during training, and I’m impressed. Is that so difficult a concept to grasp?”

“I don’t need your charity.” 

The man looks at him for a long moment, and then shakes his head, lips quirking back into that small smile. “Is that what you think it is?” 

“Look, I’m just here for the position – don’t need friends or anything like that. You’ve all contented yourselves to ignoring me like I’m not even fucking here, so I don’t really need that to change.”

But the man’s face hardens, eyes glinting darkly as he frowns, the first time that look of amusement has slipped from his face – and Porthos, briefly, believes that he has angered him. But then he says, “That they would treat you in such a way – a fellow brother – shames the musketeers. And they should be mortified.” 

“You really think that,” Porthos says after a long moment of just studying his face. Not so much a question, but his voice colored with his surprise. 

“Yes,” is the answer, without hesitation. 

Porthos goes quiet, thinking this over, and searching the other’s eyes for a sign of insincerity – for pity, for hatred, for anything at all. He finds none, only that quiet hatred that’s slowly fading away as he continues to meet Porthos’ gaze evenly.

“… So you, what? Talking to me all of a sudden cause I’m a good soldier?” Porthos asks.

“Yes,” the man says, and then shrugs a little, adding, “That, and… you’re really rather handsome. I like to associate myself with handsome people.” 

Porthos snorts, somewhat bitterly, somewhat disbelieving. “Not much of a soldier yet.” 

“But you don’t protest being handsome,” the stranger says with a smile. 

Porthos manages to keep a straight face, clamping down on the urge to bare his teeth, far too used to the distinct lack of compliments in such a way. Flea had always been double-edged with her praise, as was her way, to compliment him even when remarking, fondly, on his short-comings. But it hurts to think of her. 

“It’s the truth, regardless. I do like to associate with good soldiers.” 

“Sure,” Porthos mutters. “Maybe you’re just trying to waylay the moment when I snap and kill all of you for treating me like shit.”

There is a flicker of anger in the man’s eyes, again not pointed towards him, and Porthos watches it with a quiet kind of curiosity. The man’s face completely transforms in his anger – where before his eyes are gentle, lips quirked into the hint of a smile – in anger there is only hard lines and the sharp contrast of his thinly concealed disapproval. This man, for all his smiles and seeming openness, is closely guarded. That much Porthos can tell. Porthos knows, without a shadow of a doubt, that he should never invoke this man’s rage. 

“Would you do such a thing?” the man asks – not out of fear, not accusing. Just a general inquisitiveness, genuine and gentle. The anger is gone from his eyes, or, at least, concealed. There is a levity to his voice again. 

“… No,” Porthos says. “Honestly – I really need the money.”

“Don’t we all,” the man sighs, somewhat dramatically, and Porthos bites his tongue against the urge to say that, no, most of the men here are third-born sons of noble families, and therefore have never known true hunger, true desperation – but he recognizes the rhetorical question for what it is. “I am relieved to hear as much, however. I would be most upset if I were to die without warning. Very inconvenient.” 

“… Inconvenient,” Porthos echoes. The man shrugs, and somehow manages to make even that seem like a flourish. 

Porthos’ eyebrows quirk upwards as he stares at him for a long moment – and then he laughs, feeling it burst out of him. It takes him by surprised, bubbling up from his throat – the sheer force of that bark of laughter, as if he has forgotten, exactly, what it felt like to laugh. What it felt like to be happy, if only for a moment. It knocks into him with enough force that he feels he could easily fall flat onto his back and just stare up at this man with a quiet kind of shock. He shakes his head, amused despite his better judgment, and watches the way a smile blooms across the other man’s face – softer than before, friendly and observing. 

“My goodness,” he whispers, his voice light and airy – breathless. 

“What?” Porthos replies quickly, voice gruff with his embarrassment, even as laughter still colors his voice. 

“It’s only that – you look completely different when you smile.” He tilts his head. “A different man entirely – when you aren’t scowling and attempting to intimidate me. You have dimples.”

“Do I?” Porthos asks, if only because he’s honestly never thought of it before – and it is hardly that a mirror is quick to come by, in his life. He finds he’s still smiling, though, and it’s refreshing – something he hasn’t felt for a while now. 

“Yes,” is his answer, and there’s a smile mirrored on the man’s face as he looks at Porthos. He tilts his head forward, looking at him for a long moment through his eyelashes. Porthos feels momentarily unsettled under such scrutiny, but says nothing. And then he seems to both remember himself and seem unable to help himself from asking: “Has anyone been giving you trouble, truly?” 

“You think I’m lying?” he mutters, the anger twisting so sharply through his stomach that it takes him by surprise – the sheer force of the reaction instinctive and immediate. 

“No,” he answers quickly, and the twisting of his gut eases just slightly. “I mean – do you feel threatened? Unwelcomed?” 

For two seconds, he thinks the man is joking. Porthos’ jaw clenches and he says nothing for a long moment, temporarily halted by the words. He levels this man with a wry look, not interested or even attempting to explain how he simply _knows_ the look they give him – the way they look at him before he can do or say anything, already deciding who he is and what he is capable of, that they believe him a brute and an animal because of his skills, unfocused and barbaric in fighting in comparison to years of training in hunting and fencing. He knows the look of distaste well. He knows the look of dismissal better. He knows the look of disgust most of all – and while the musketeers, as a whole, have accepted him into their ranks, it is with a cold kind of distance that Porthos has no interest in breeching. 

So instead of saying all this, he merely smirks, tilting his chin up defiantly. He can’t keep the bitterness from his voice, so doesn’t even try to mask it or disguise it. “It’s the others who should feel threatened. Where I come from? Wouldn’t let this kinda shit slide for a moment.” 

“And where do you hail from, my friend?” 

“… Nowhere,” Porthos says, quietly, after a brief moment of consideration. “Not important.” 

“I understand,” the man says and Porthos is thankful that he does not insist. “It’s not my intention to pry.”

“What is your intention, then?” 

“To have a pleasant conversation on this very beautiful morning with a very handsome man and fellow brother,” the man replies, prim and, from what Porthos can tell, truthfully. 

“I’m flattered,” Porthos says, voice dry – just a little brittle. 

“And yet you have yet to tell me your name.” There is certainly hope in the smile the other musketeer directs his way. 

Porthos sits quietly for a moment – debating. It would be a simple matter for anyone to discover his name, from the Captain or otherwise. But it is the first time that another has asked him, and he feels that strange, pleasantly proud urge to introduce himself – feeling that it is perhaps for the first time. 

“Porthos,” he says, and then adds, as if in an afterthought, “du Vallon. Of the King’s Musketeers.”

“Well, Porthos du Vallon, of the King’s Musketeers,” Aramis murmurs, light, and there’s a glimmer in his eyes that means he’s being teased – but not mocked. “That’s a good name.” 

Porthos says nothing, unsure what to say to such a response. He thinks he should find it so pathetic, that such a simple, throwaway compliment should make him feel lighter, should make his heart trip into a doubled-pace – as if it is the kindest words ever spoken to him. Perhaps they are. It is, after all, his name. And it is a good name. He snorts out the approximation of a laugh and shrugs, dismissive, but when he glances over at the man before him, who watches him with a softer expression Porthos can’t quite place.

He tilts his chin. “What of you?” 

He smiles, warm, and says, “Aramis.” 

“Aramis,” Porthos parrots. 

“The full name is rather stuffy,” he says, dismissively, waving a hand elegantly and resting his chin on his palm as he smiles at him. “I’d really much prefer that you call me that, rather than anything else, yes?” 

“Alright,” Porthos says slowly, because he sincerely doubts that this conversation will continue, once Aramis’ companions arrive, or even once the day gets underway. All the same, it is something pleasant, if melancholic and bittersweet, to actually have someone to speak to. He’d forgotten how much he loved it – and how much he missed it. “Aramis, then.” 

“Consider what I said before,” Aramis says and, sure enough, is standing, rolling his shoulders. Porthos finally decides that there is a theatrical air to him – both genuine and artifice, at once natural charm and purposeful flippancy. “I’ve given the Captain enough time to prepare himself for the morning, wouldn’t you say? I can probably go up and see him now.” 

“Probably,” Porthos mutters, and finds that he’s disappointed the conversation is over. 

Aramis says nothing, but the way he smiles seems to suggest he can tell what Porthos is thinking – or, perhaps, can’t help but agree. He tips his hat, places his pistol back to his side, and steps back from the table. He’s making his way to the stairs leading up to the Captain’s office when he pauses, looking back at him. He leans against the handrailing of the staircase, and his expression is lilting and observant – and Porthos feels guileless under such a look. 

“And a word of advice, if I may, Porthos?” Aramis asks. Porthos nods for him to go ahead, and Aramis smiles at him, warm and soft – transforming his face into something intimate, as if Porthos is and was the only man on earth to ever see such a smile from him. Something only for him. “Your name is your own – do not say it as if you are still trying to earn it. Do not say it as if it is a question.” 

Porthos watches him ascend the stairs, still and thoughtful. 

 

\---

 

Porthos is certain this is the end of it. After the conversation in the early morning light, Aramis goes about his business and hardly glances Porthos’ way again. In fact, Porthos hardly sees much of Aramis. It is always in passing – from afar, watching Aramis leave the garrison with the rest of his party, watching him pass by with a beautiful woman on his arm, watching him train or adjust his hat or fix his collar or any number of things. He hardly sees much of Aramis, but when Aramis is nearby, Porthos can’t help but spot him and let his eyes linger, before he can even question it. 

The garrison is small, so he sees the familiar faces, even if there is little time for them to speak to him – or, even, to want to speak to him. Aramis’ conversation was the longest he’s had since joining the musketeers, and the absence of speech now bites at the inside of him, as if words are simply trying to claw their way out of him. To subdue this aching, he spends less nights at the taverns (people know now not to play cards with him, so the increase of his purse has slowly waned away) and more nights in his room, struggling to read over the small collection of papers he’s managed to keep in his possession, trying to memorize words now that he’s mastered the alphabet. He feels adrift, in the smallness of the garrison in juxtaposition of the vastness of Paris. He feels as if he could stretch far and wide, if only he had the chance, but he has little money and thus brothels and weaponsmiths have little interest in him. 

But he’s learned to accept that it is what it is, without complaint (mostly because, who is there to listen to him?) when one morning, Aramis drops down beside him and elbows him. 

“Come then, Porthos, my friend – it’s time we tested our skills against one another,” he says with a wicked grin, cheerful and bright in the morning sunlight. 

“Oh yeah? My gunmanship meeting your approval now?”

“Not even a little bit,” Aramis tuts. “But nevertheless, I’ve thought of a compromise. I am, as you know, an expert on shooting – and your skills are unmatched in hand-to-hand. Therefore, I propose swords.” 

Aramis strides confidently across the garrison, expecting Porthos to follow. To his own surprise, he finds that he is, following Aramis struts like a shadow, taking in the sight of the sun in his hair, the slant of his shoulders, the way the fleur-de-lis sits perfectly across his arm, as if it were born there. His armbrace is an intricate weaving of vines and flowers, curling around the fleur-de-lis delicately. It’s elegant, and Porthos watches the way Aramis swings his arms as he trots happily towards the practice area, drawing the sword from his side and turning to Porthos with a wicked grin. 

“Come now, my friend,” says Aramis, and his smile spreads across his face as he takes Porthos in. “I’d have struck you down threefold by now. Draw your sword.” 

“You’re rather determined,” Porthos says, but obeys him all the same – he’s always been competitive, and he’s been itching for a fight now that his fellow musketeers know better than to take him on in hand-to-hand. Porthos draws his sword, adjusting his grip and mimicking Aramis’ stance, standing a short distance from him. “Haven’t practiced much with this, you know.”

“I know,” Aramis replies with a wide grin, eyes sparkling in his wickedness. “I’ve been watching you.” 

“Have you?” 

Aramis shrugs, lips quirking downwards in the shadow of a frown, obviously put on for Porthos’ benefit. 

“… I’m flattered,” Porthos mutters, dryly, and watches the way Aramis swings his arm, limbering himself up and waiting for their sparring to begin. “So,” he says after a brief moment in which they both lapse into silence, looking at each other rather than their stances, “What do I get if I beat you?”

“Why, the triumph of victory,” Aramis crows, grinning. And then adds, demurely, “And a bottle of wine.” 

“Dunno if I can afford you the same winner’s purse,” Porthos admits, slowly, thinking of the many card games he cannot have now that he has grown in reputation, and of the money he’s spent feeding himself, meant to live on this meager commission. 

Aramis smirks, low and promising. “Then, you’ll just have to be sure to win, won’t you?” 

And then with an artful flourish, Aramis darts forward, and Porthos barely has time to lift his sword in time to block, watching as Aramis dances away just as quickly as he approaches – his smile still in place but his eyes glinting with a kind of hard competitiveness. He observes Porthos like he does all the other men – a kind of disconcerting steadiness that’s at once invasive and inviting. Porthos plants his feet and swings, catching Aramis before he can properly dart away a second time, and their swords clash, and soon they fall into a steady rhythm of attack and retreat, matching each other and moving as if liquid, flowing around each other and countering one another, until Porthos is intimately familiar with the color of Aramis’ flashing eyes, the way his jaw clenches just before he lunges forward, the way he bites his lip when countering Porthos’ attacks. 

But it is clear who is the more skilled, clear who the experienced soldier is, and Aramis parries and flourishes, upsetting Porthos’ balance with artfully placed jabs and that flash of skill – and it is not long before Porthos’ sword is knocked from his hand and the sharp blade of Aramis’ sword presses to the hollow of his throat, for half a second – and Porthos forgets to be afraid, leaning back against the wall and swallowing thickly as he watches Aramis watch him in turn. 

“You are so angry,” Aramis says quietly, lowering his sword and stepping close to him. Porthos tenses up, expects to hear what he always hears – that he should be grateful he’s made it this far, that he should be kinder to expect more sympathy. And yet, he also knows, somehow, that Aramis would never say such things, never think them – or, at least, he likes to believe this is the case. 

Aramis touches his shoulder, grips it, and squeezes, studying his face. The shadow across his face feels as if it carries wait, and the moment blurs for half a second as Porthos stares down at Aramis – feels utterly and completely exposed, as he breathes hard, sweat collecting at the collar of his shirt, his entire body taut and ready to fight. He is keenly aware of Aramis – the way the sun catches his eyes, the way his chest heaves with his own shortness of breath, the way his shirtsleeves cling to the sweat on his body, the way he watches him, as if he is a puzzle to unlock and discover. 

“You are strong,” Aramis murmurs, studying his face, and there is a fracture of pressure to the words that make Porthos forget to breathe. Sweat dampens his collar as he takes one slow, steady step away from him, and the smile returns to his face after a long moment. “You’ve fought for a long time.”

“I’m still fighting,” Porthos mumbles back. 

Aramis smiles still, but there is a touch of sadness to it. “Aren’t we all.” 

 

\---

 

After that, it seems that Aramis purposefully seeks him out. It’s a wonder that the man actually has missions and duties, for all the time he spends in the garrison during the daylight hours, keeping Porthos company or drawing him into conversations with other musketeers, as well. It’s hardly a wonder – anyone who stays in Aramis’ company for more than two seconds can see how charming and charismatic he is, and how easily he draws conversation to him. Like it’s easy – and Porthos almost envies him that. Still, his absence is always clear to Porthos, whenever Aramis leaves for missions – usually only days excursions, sometimes only hours. 

There are the evening hours, of course, where he hardly sees much of Aramis – who confides in him all the best brothels and also the best widows, as if Porthos has the time or money for such matters. (Aramis tuts at him and shakes his head in mock scandal when he confesses as much, remarking that women are to be cherished for their good graces and wits, not just their purses.) 

“Are you lonesome?” Aramis asks, dropping down next to him and bumping his shoulder to his – a common greeting between them now. “Sitting here all alone?” 

“Just thinking,” Porthos says. 

“My goodness – we are not training you hard enough if you have time to ponder.” 

Porthos snorts, lips quirking into a small smile, and his reward is Aramis beaming at him as if he has hung the moon. It makes Porthos smile a little more, ignores the slight shift in his chest as he breathes out. 

“What would you know of pondering?” he teases, and kicks his foot back against his, letting his boot scuff over Aramis’ toe. “You’d hardly know what to do if you were left alone with your thoughts.”

Aramis sighs out, a touch of wistfulness to his tone when he says, dramatically, “My friend, you are too cruel. Although correct.” 

“Thought as much.” 

“Have you any news on when you’ll be in rotation?” Aramis asks a moment later, changing the subject. 

“Not yet,” Porthos sighs. “Can’t be too much longer now, though. Getting restless just training all day.” 

“Patience, my friend.” 

“Patience and I have never been particularly close,” Porthos snorts out. 

“It is a shame, though,” Aramis sighs out. “I was hoping that the Captain would have you assigned to the training exercise this week.” 

“Which?”

“On the border – near Savoy,” he says, waving his hand in that elegant dismissal of his. “I’d have loved to see you roughing it out in the woods for a change.”

“You think I can’t?”

“On the contrary, I know you can – and I would be most privileged if I were to see it.” Aramis even has the gall to waggle his eyebrows, which only makes Porthos laugh. 

He knows his laughter brings Aramis much delight, because every time he does, the grin blooms across his face, making his eyes light up. It’s a beautiful sight, Porthos can’t help but think – and he understands why so many women fall in love with him, like it’s as easy as breathing. 

“Maybe next time.” He quietly thinks to himself that he’ll miss Aramis’ company – as a training exercise so far as to the border means it’ll be a long trip. 

“It’s just a training exercise,” Aramis says with a small shrug, smiling lightly – and adds, as if reading Porthos’ thoughts, “It won’t take long.” 

Porthos shrugs, unsure why he’s been singled out to be told this. It isn’t as if he and Aramis are overly close, but, then again, Porthos can’t help but feel a little envious – that Aramis should have been with the regiment long enough to be able to go on the missions in the first place, when Porthos is still struggling to prove himself and learn to live on his commission. 

“Don’t miss me too much, my friend,” Aramis sighs out dramatically – which only makes Porthos laugh again.

“I’ll try,” he says with a smile, feeling the corners of his eyes crinkle up with laughter lines when he looks at Aramis. 

The last he sees of Aramis, he’s following the rest of his men out of the garrison. 

Something like a shadow, smiling – warm and memorable. 

 

\---

 

He learns of the massacre at Savoy later – just like everyone else. He doesn’t know the twenty men who died, doesn’t know which two survived, one a coward and the other injured – but he naturally thinks – hopes – that Aramis is one of the survivors. Perhaps selfishly, because in his life, he knows there’s a certain freedom and relief to not being the survivor, to dying and not having to continue to live through a hell that’s been left behind. But Porthos has been as survivor his entire life, fought his entire life – and he knows that he’ll never stop doing so, never stop being so. 

There’s no way of knowing if it’s even Aramis who survived, regardless. He tries to envision whether Aramis is the type to run away, a coward, from such a reality. He doesn’t think so, but he also doesn’t know Aramis, either. And no man knows another in such a situation – never knows what a hopeless situation will reveal about his inner self. 

Still, an official inquiry into the Savoy massacre brands it all a terrible accident, the musketeers on the training exercise merely ill-equipped and ill-prepared for an ambush. A grievous loss, and one that cannot go unanswered. The following days involve collecting the Spanish ambassador to Paris, determining the exact loss of men and lives, determining the mental state of the lone survivor, determining what is to be done with the betrayer. 

He did not know the men who died, hardly knows anyone yet, but he sees the effect it has on the other men – they list around, canting from side to side as if uncertain what to do with themselves. The Captain especially seems frayed and heavy in his thoughts – and Porthos, at least, has sympathy for that pain. The pain of losing important people, feeling as if you failed them, feeling as if you are the cause of those deaths. He knows that well. 

He sees Aramis about a week later – and it’s with a shock of breath that rushes out of him that makes Porthos realize how deeply he was hoping it would be Aramis who survived. Porthos is early to the garrison – Serge hasn’t even begun preparations for serving breakfast yet – and Aramis is standing in the center of it all, staring off into nothing. For someone who lit up any space he seemed to encompass, now, Aramis seems dull and far away. He’s endured, and there is an edge to the line of his shoulders, hinting at the loss of lives and the lack of proper vengeance. Porthos watches him for a long moment, takes in the sight of his hair disheveled, knocked astray from the bandages circling over his forehead. Takes in the way he carries himself, when he thinks no one is watching – shoulders slumped and tense, chin tilted up in a quiet kind of defiance he feels he doesn’t deserve, and hands slack at his sides. 

For half a moment, he seems suspended there in that moment, staring off to nothing – and then the line of his jaw tightens and wobbles and Porthos is stepping forward before he even realizes he’s doing so, going to his side as if he was always meant to be there. 

He touches his shoulder, lightly, uncertain. Aramis seems to blink himself out of it and turns to look at him, expression dark and haunted, but clearing up after a moment.

“Porthos,” he says, as if it is the first time he’s ever seen him. And then he smiles, but it’s flat and edged. “Hello.”

“Hey,” he answers, quietly. His hand feels heavy on Aramis’ shoulder, but he’s made no move to step back from the touch, either. “You’re here early.” 

“Am I?” Aramis asks, faintly, a rhetorical question that requires no answer. He looks around the garrison, as if seeing it for the first time, and when he turns back to Porthos, his smile is less of a hard-edge and more welcoming. He lifts his own hand, fingers circling around Porthos’ wrist, and squeezing. “What are you doing here so early, then?” 

“Couldn’t sleep,” Porthos says.

Aramis’ smile turns bitter. “Nor I.” 

Aramis still hasn’t let go of his hand, so Porthos does not let go of his shoulder. They stand there, in the early morning, looking at one another in the quiet. And Porthos is struck with the ghost of the Aramis he first met – the dark, heavy-set eyes he’d laid on him when he had Porthos at the end of his sword, his breathing ragged and determined, his arm straight and poised, the determined dip of his chin as he looked at Porthos through his eyelashes, the wisps of his hair framing his face, clinging to the hollow of his cheeks as he breathed out. What he sees now is that quiet cousin of that fire, eyes dark and haunted and miles away, expression gentle if guarded. At once predator and prey – that eternal contradiction that Porthos has come to expect from Aramis. He knows, intimately, how much he does not know Aramis. And how much he would like to. 

“I thought you were dead,” he says, quietly, before he can stop it – before he can stop to think of how insensitive the words will sound. 

Instead of drawing back as he expects, Aramis merely cants an eyebrow until it disappears beneath the bandages, and for half a moment Porthos could swear there is a high color on the edge of his cheeks, but it must just be the sunlight because a moment later, Aramis is just shaking his head thoughtfully, somewhat fondly, as he looks at Porthos. 

“Did you worry for me, my friend?” Aramis murmurs, finally lower his eyes from him, examining their hands with a faint kind of curiosity, as a child does an oddity for the first time. 

Porthos shifts a little, suddenly uncertain under the scrutiny, but still makes no move to pull his hand back. Aramis’ hand shifts against his wrist, just slightly, enough so that his thumb brushes along the thin veins on the underside of his wrist, and then he pulls away. So Porthos lets his hand drop away, too. 

“I think,” Porthos says, slow and careful, feeling unreasonably scrutinized when he glances up and finds Aramis watching him, as if waiting for the proper answer. “I think that much should be obvious, shouldn’t it?” 

Aramis regards him, searching his eyes, and Porthos stares right back, face heavy and calm and, he hopes, perhaps a touch intimidating, if only to get Aramis to not guess too deeply, to not dissect him. There is nothing he hates more than to be treated like an oddity, like a rarity, like something exotic. 

But Aramis only looks at him, as if seeing him for the first time. He turns the corners of his mouth down, carefully, his expression thoughtful as he looks at Porthos. 

“I’ve been temporarily stripped of duty,” Aramis says at last, with a sigh, and touches at his shoulder with his free hand, where his fleur-de-lis is noticeably absent. Porthos misses the intricate woven nature of the vines and flowers around the symbol. It’d suited him. 

“You look naked without it,” Porthos mutters without thinking, and frowns as soon as he says it. 

Instead of looking scandalized, Aramis gives him half-smile, and for the first time his eyes seem to light up. “So you’re saying I must look very fetching.”

Porthos laughs, before he can stop himself. 

Aramis’ expression softens. “That’s much better. You were looking far too serious, my friend.” 

Porthos’ laughter fades as quickly as it spiked out of him, but he finds that he’s smiling a little, indulgent, as he meets Aramis’ eyes and finds him looking back at him – feels as if Aramis hasn’t looked away from him this entire time, if only for something to anchor himself to, if only so he won’t lose his moment again and fade into the middle-distance. 

“Can you blame me?” he asks.

“No,” replies Aramis, without hesitation, and sighs. “I suppose I can’t.” 

“… Want to do something?” Porthos asks, on a whim. 

Aramis’ eyebrows lift and he gives him a wry look. “And what something did you have in mind?” 

Porthos grins, embarrassed, but shakes his head. “Cards?” 

“I know your tricks,” Aramis warns, but there’s that same wickedness in his eyes that Porthos has missed, and he sweeps his hand out towards the little table at the base of the Captain’s stairwell. “But I suppose I’ve never seen it firsthand.” 

“Sit, then,” Porthos says, and then on a whim grasps Aramis’ shoulders and steers him towards the little table until he sits down. He squeezes his shoulders and waits until Aramis looks up at him to grin again. “Gotta get the cards. Be right back.” 

He dashes back to his quarters, fumbles around until he finds the deck of cards he favors, and moves back quickly to the table, not wanting to leave Aramis alone in his thoughts for too long. Aramis looks up when he returns, smiles faintly when Porthos sits down opposite him and sets the cards down before him. 

“You shuffle,” Porthos invites, gesturing to the cards. “I’m a gentleman, after all. My reputation is entirely ill-founded.” 

“Of that I have no doubt,” Aramis teases, and takes the cards, shuffling them carefully, his nimble fingers working diligently, if a bit slowly for Porthos’ tastes – cards are probably the only thing in the world that are small that he can handle without flubbing it, hands too thick and untalented. Cards, and money purses. In that, he had no equal, able to steal from any man or woman, even the soundest of thieves. He was the best. 

He looks up suddenly to find Aramis watching him, and it’s worse than a slap to the face, to be caught reminiscing about something so long ago in his past. He lowers his eyes, ashamed, and hears the soft exhale from Aramis. And a moment later, Aramis’ hand touches over his, covering it, fingers sliding over his knuckles for two seconds, before he pulls it back in a sense of propriety Porthos is sure is mostly put-on more than truly felt. 

He looks up all the same and finds Aramis smiling to him. “I lost you there for a moment.” 

“I’m back now,” Porthos says. 

“I understand,” Aramis murmurs, lowering his eyes to finish shuffling and then dealing out between the two of them. Porthos lowers his eyes, too, watching the way he deals, noting the arch of his fingers as he serves the cards, noting the reverent way he cradles Porthos’ deck as if it is something precious. 

“I’m sure you do,” he mutters, picking the cards up once he’s dealt them out and staring blankly down at the favorable hand before him. 

“How have you fared the last few weeks, Porthos?” Aramis asks suddenly. He’s looking at his cards and not at him, and Porthos frowns thoughtfully. Aramis adds, “I trust you are finally getting to experience the joys of Paris.” 

“Dunno about that,” Porthos says slowly. 

“And the others? I trust they haven’t been giving you trouble?” Aramis asks, darkly. 

Porthos looks at Aramis again, but Aramis does not look at him, organizing his cards in his hand in a way that suits him, and Porthos frowns, uncertain if Aramis is joking or not. But the more he thinks of it, the more he is uncertain if he is being tested, or if there is something that he’s missed. 

Still, he shrugs. “Nothing blatant. Guess they’ve learned I’m here to stay. Really just subtle things now. That’s how it always is – at least they know not to say anything too much, lest I kick their ass.” 

He watches the way Aramis’ jaw clenches, but he nods, accepting this. 

“Luckily I’m used to it,” Porthos says, dryly, slapping down two cards to discard and waiting for Aramis to give him two new ones. “And it doesn’t bother me anymore.”

“Yes it does,” Aramis says quietly. 

Porthos freezes up, and says nothing. 

“It bothers you. How could it not?” Aramis gives him a sharp look, warm at the edges but that same subdued hatred Porthos remembers from the first day, that hatred he now realizes, fully, is directed towards those in Porthos’ life who would have hurt him. “You hide it well, though. I believe if you were to say that to anyone else, they would believe you.”

“And what makes you so special?” Porthos asks, a thread of bitterness lacing through his voice. 

Aramis shakes his head. “Nothing. I merely pay attention.”

“You watch me,” Porthos says quietly as Aramis chooses one card to discard and fetches a new one. 

“You’re very talented at what you do – it’s a wonder that there aren’t more who can’t keep their eyes from you.” 

“You’d be surprised,” Porthos says. 

Aramis’ hand is to his wrist again, squeezing. Porthos looks up – didn’t realize he’d been looking down – and meets Aramis’ gaze, hard and unrelenting. 

“It’s a wonder to me,” Aramis says quietly, and for the first time perhaps his face looks less dead and haunted, open and trusting as he looks at Porthos, “that you should pass by unnoticed by so many.” 

Porthos sits there in a numb kind of surprise, uncertain how to respond to such a thing – never having heard such a thing before, even when it’s something he knows is the truth, even when it’s something that he agrees with. Still, to hear it from someone else is a shock to his system, and he sits there, stunned, for all of two seconds before he blinks once, looks down at Aramis’ hand, and then back up to meet his eyes. 

He laughs, disbelieving, but feeling a warmth bloom in his chest. “Yeah, but who can look at me whenever you’re around? Who could look at anyone else?” 

Aramis laughs, too, and there’s a note of sullenness to the tone, even though his eyes are warm. “Well,” he says, and smiles, that low, secretive smile of his that Porthos has found himself obsessed with seeing, “I am devastatingly handsome. And rather pretty.” 

“So you are,” Porthos says, and lays down his hand – four kings and an ace. “Especially when you lose.” 

Aramis squawks in protest. 

 

\---

 

It’s late in the evening a few days later that Porthos hears a knock at his door. He tenses up immediately, frowning at the minimal oil burning in his lamp – debating just shutting it off and saving his reading lesson for another evening. But he figures whoever is at the door will leave soon enough, as it’s far too late to be the Captain needing anything. 

But the knocking is insistent, and Porthos stands, retrieving his pistol from beneath his pillow, moving towards the door. He freezes, however, when the knocking gives way to a quiet, tentative voice, “Porthos?” 

He recognizes the voice, of course, and quickly pulls the door open to let Aramis in. Aramis looks small in the waning hours of the night, but he perks up a little when Porthos opens the door. 

“I’d worried you may be asleep,” Aramis says. His hair is disheveled, an eternal problem it seems, and he holds his hat in hand. His shirtsleeve are misbuttoned. Porthos raises one eyebrow at the state of his dress and Aramis shrugs inelegantly and steps inside. “If I could trouble you, my dear friend, I’m in need of amnesty.” 

“You’ve gone an upset someone, have you?” Porthos says with a roll of his eyes. 

“I have no idea what you could mean,” Aramis says faintly, and takes the opportunity to look around Porthos quaint lodgings – there isn’t much, save for the pistol in hand, the oil burning in the lamp, the loose leaves of paper he uses to practice, and his deck of cards. Aside from his weapons and uniform, he owns nothing else. “Hm,” Aramis says, and it isn’t a sound of pity, but rather means he’s impressed. “Yes, this will do nicely for my amnesty.” 

“You can use as many fancy words as you like,” Porthos snorts with another roll of his eyes, “You’re still hiding out. Did a husband catch you?”

“I have no idea what you could mean,” Aramis repeats faintly. He sits himself down in Porthos’ chair, in front of his illegible writings and lines of reading – and Porthos is suddenly uncertain, suddenly feeling entirely too vulnerable, with all his insecurities and inadequacies stretched out for Aramis to see. There’s a line of _R r R r R r_ that he’s particularly ashamed of, the letters looking more like a series of circles and sticks rather than the letters they’re meant to be. Instead of saying anything, though, Aramis turns to look up at Porthos with his small smile and says, “I don’t know where you could have heard such a thing, Porthos.” 

Porthos shrugs and sits down on his bed, replacing his pistol to the spot beneath his pillow – and knows that Aramis has both seen the movement and documented it away. “I’ve heard you have many talents.” 

Aramis laughs, delicately, and it sounds like bells as he tries to muffle it against his hand. He must be serious about lying low. “Oh you have, have you?” 

Porthos catches onto his mistake too late, can see the way Aramis is grinning at him wickedly. He looks away and shrugs. “I don’t tend to listen to rumors – but you can’t help but hear them sometimes.” 

“Mm,” Aramis hums out. Porthos looks at him, looks at how innocently one hand rests on the table, fingers brushing over the papers strewn there, even if Aramis has yet to actually say anything about them. His fingers are heavy stones against all of Porthos’ failures. 

He looks at Aramis’ face – searches for the seams in his face, looks at the way his hair falls across his eyes, the way his eyelashes shift when he looks down at his hands, then back up at Porthos. He imagines pulling him in close, imagines dragging him to the bed – and the thought surprises him as much as it derails all other thought. 

“You seem more recovered,” Porthos says, lightly, if only for something to say.

“Do I?” Aramis asks faintly, looking at the little flame in Porthos’ lamp. “I’ll return to duty soon, I believe. The Captain has seen fit to let me return to my tasks.” 

“That’s good, isn’t it?” Porthos asks, and adds, when Aramis says nothing, “It helps, to have something to do. Have a purpose. Takes your mind off it.” 

“And if I don’t wish to forget?” Aramis whispers. 

“Don’t you?” Porthos replies. 

“Sometimes I think I do,” says Aramis, quietly, thoughtful – turning his eyes away so he does not look at Porthos. “And sometimes the idea of forgetting is too much to bear. I still see their faces, still hear…” 

He trails off and lapses into silence. Porthos sits there, feeling utterly unprepared – because he’s lost important people, of course he has, but never like this, and the pain of his loss is so ached over now that he forgets what it feels like to feel raw, to feel exposed and incomplete, blasted apart and sewn back together improperly. 

Before he’s even fully aware that he’s doing it, Porthos is to Aramis’ side, kneeling down before him, looking into his face. Up close, he can see the craws and seams of his face, see the way he hasn’t been sleeping, marked by the heavy-set of bags beneath his eyes, the way his face seems paled and ashen, the dryness of his lips, the crease of his brow between his eyebrows. But he gazes back at Porthos evenly, as if inviting this scrutiny now that it’s been turned onto him. 

“… Am I interrupting? If you were writing a letter…” Aramis asks at last, and his hand shifts over the papers. He slants his eyes away, and Porthos tenses up as Aramis seems to finally comprehend what he’s looking at. And then he looks to Porthos, pleased, filled with an open, honest appreciation. “Porthos, are you teaching yourself to write?” 

There is a deep shame that flushes through him, and he stares at Aramis in a silent kind of horror, half expecting that any respect he’s earned from Aramis has now departed. But Aramis’ eyes are soft and his smile is open and appreciative. Delighted – charmed. It’s the kind of smile that leaves so many people breathless, Porthos knows, the kind that’s perfect for charming and for earning confidence, and Porthos watches as Aramis runs his thumb over the worn, thin pages of the papers. Porthos feels as if he has been caught in a landslide, unable to move, unable to escape. 

“Where did you learn all this?” Aramis asks in wonderment, sorting through the papers as if uncovering a secret code, or a love letter. “Did you teach yourself?” 

“Yes,” Porthos finally manages to say. He feels a warmth in his chest, and he’s uncertain if it is shame or happiness at Aramis’ praise, unrelenting and unrestrained. “It’s… you pick up one or two things in your lifetime, I guess. I just—”

“This won’t do at all,” Aramis says, sitting up a little straighter. “You should get a bible.”

“I sure as hell don’t know Latin…” Porthos mutters, cautiously, wishing to at once yank the pages from Aramis’ hand and, at the same time, never see Aramis lift his hand away from Porthos struggles. The written words – the physical evidence of how far he’s come in his life, and to have Aramis’ hand on it, protecting it, looking at it as if it is precious, as if it is something reverent—

“I have a translated copy,” Aramis says, perking up. “I can give it to you.”

Porthos arches an eyebrow. “How very Protestant of you, Aramis.” 

Aramis grins at him, wickedly. “I never pretended to be a good Catholic.” 

Porthos snorts a little, amused, if only because of the musketeers, Aramis seems the best Catholic of them all – always going to Sunday mass without fail and returning with his shoulders squared, his expression always a little less haunted. It lasts for a few days before he’s back to his wicked ways, but at least he is repentant about it with his religion, perhaps. 

“That’s the surest way to learn to read and write – for you can finally put the passages to written word.” Aramis nods, resolute, having decided on the course of action. 

“… I don’t exactly know a lot of the verse,” Porthos admits, slowly. 

“Then all the better. You can save your very lovely soul as you better your education,” Aramis responds, beaming at him. Porthos finds himself smiling back, tentatively, lets his dull heart, shuttered and gasping, expand to fill his chest again as he looks at Aramis. Aramis tilts his head. “Besides, it will be something like poetry, I assure you. Beautiful things to discover in God’s word, Porthos.” 

“Oh yeah?” Porthos mutters, quiet, remembering a few ugly phrases that slash across his back, justification for the horrors of the world. “You know a lot about this.” 

“I was to be a priest, you know, long ago,” Aramis responds with a small shrug that reveals that this is not just throwaway information – but something he has chosen to reveal. 

“Yeah?” Porthos is legitimately surprised by the revelation. 

Aramis shrugs elegantly, and perhaps in that moment seems regal, even in shirtsleeves. “Do I not seem priestly to you?” 

“… Dunno,” Porthos admits. “I… did not know many priests, in my life.” 

“Indeed?” Aramis blinks at him, frowning thoughtfully. “I suppose in smaller villages, there is only the one priest – hardly enough to get a sense of what they are like and—”

“I didn’t grow up in a village,” Porthos interrupts. 

“Forgive me,” Aramis says with a small, apologetic smile. “I’ve been made to assume as much, as it’s clear from your humor and quick wits that you and I are of the same, not born high in society.” 

Porthos snorts derisively. “No one like me is _high-born._ ” 

“Which is a shame,” Aramis sighs, and there is a heat to the shadow that crosses his face, “for I have never known a more noble gentleman.” 

Porthos is quiet for a long moment, and knows that Aramis will drop the subject if he allows it to lapse like this. Knows that he will not press him. He looks down, finds that his hand has been on Aramis’ knee now for some time – and he pulls it away, feeling the loss of that stable heat beneath his palm and feeling unsteady because of it. 

He looks up at Aramis, from where he kneels before him on the floor. “I grew up in the Court of Miracles. Not a lot of church-goers there.” 

To finally admit it is something like a breath – a breath he’d been holding for so long, and to finally admit it now is strange, to have it out in the open, to admit the ghost that haunts his every turn, claws at his back as if trying to drag him back into those darkened walls all over again. 

Aramis does not look on him with pity or disgust, though – and though he knew Aramis would not, it’s still a relief to see that it only makes Aramis’ expression soften as he looks at him – obviously understanding the significance of the admission. 

“… I was to be married, once,” Aramis says. “So long ago it seems now.” 

His voice is brittle, uncertain, and Porthos realizes that, in turn, he is being tested. And he wants to do and say what’s expected of him, what’s desired of him. He sits up on his knees a little more, so that he is more level with Aramis, places his hands on the armrests of his chair, looks at Aramis as Aramis meets his gaze in the low burning light of the oil lamp. 

“She fell pregnant, and – the child was lost. And I, in turn, lost her,” Aramis whispers out, and the fragile look in his eyes blisters under the heat of his regret, but Porthos does not look away. “I searched for her – for so long, I searched. And at the end of my search, without her, I lost all will for anything but my agony and my regret. Soldiery seemed the best to do – to dispatch others to the hell I felt every waking moment.” 

“Did it help?” Porthos asks. 

Aramis shakes his head. “No.” He laughs. “But I forgot – for a little while.” 

“Guess there are some things that killing can help,” Porthos mutters, half derisively. “I think – most of us have lost something important, in one way or another. Most of us are trying to gain back other things, in its place.” 

Aramis smiles faintly. “Oh, my friend. You’re half correct.” He shakes his head. “All men and women are the same. We all want the same thing.” 

“You know this for certain?” 

“There are so many – with the same look. I saw it on your face when you first came here, even when you tried to hide it.” 

“Yeah?” Porthos asks, gruff. 

“Loneliness. Wanting to belong,” Aramis sighs. “I know that well, too.” 

Porthos finds it hard to believe that someone as kind and attention-grabbing as Aramis should feel loneliness – but then, hadn’t that been his strategy from the beginning, as well – to be as loud as he could be, in order to summon attentions. He wonders if there should ever be another man who can look as haunted and lonely, forgotten and cast aside, as Aramis does in this moment. 

Porthos doesn’t answer him, just holds his gaze. Aramis’ eyes are narrow, and lips are wine-dark where they press together. The world around them is silent – whoever was chasing Aramis is long gone now, or, perhaps, never was there to begin with, aside from ghosts and haunting in the dead of night when unlonely men are sleeping. The world outside is quiet, and still. It is so rare for Paris to be so silent, to be bereft of even the murmur of men in a bar, the wailing of an infant for his mother, the whine of a dog searching for a meal, the clamor of life and love and living. 

Aramis speaks to him, and it takes a moment for Porthos to catch up on the words to realize he does not recognize him – that Aramis speaks Latin. He smiles, small and charming, when he finishes, laughing a little in delight at the look of sheer incomprehension on Porthos’ face, murmuring that he’ll translate: 

“ _Place me like a seal over your heart, like a seal on your arm; for love is as strong as death, its jealousy unyielding as the grave. It burns like blazing fire, like a mighty flame._ ” Aramis is quiet for a long moment after the recitation, and then he smiles, low and secretive. “Is that not poetry, my dear friend?” 

“Sounds like it to me,” Porthos murmurs, looking at Aramis. Aramis smiles at him and his eyes flutter closed, and Porthos feels as if he is miss-stepping by not stepping at all. He looks down, at his hands grasping hard at the chair’s arms. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees more than hears Aramis sigh out, the corners of his mouth quirk up. 

“Then allow me to give you that bible,” Aramis says, opening his eyes again. “Allow me to help you?” 

“If… that’s what you’d like.” He feels incapable of words. 

“More than anything.” He sighs out, looking at Porthos quietly, contemplating. “If I may – I’ll give it to you tomorrow?” He nods a little when Porthos nods. “Although, for now, I suppose I should be off.” 

“That what you want?” Porthos stumbles, feeling ill-equipped for words all of a sudden. His heart is lodged high into his throat, squeezed tight, as if it will break. 

“No,” Aramis says, simply. Honestly. 

“You can stay,” Porthos says, before he can think better of it – but knowing, instinctively, that he would never send Aramis away. Never will, for the rest of his days. 

“… If you’ll have me,” Aramis murmurs. 

“I want – ” he pauses, clears his throat, corrects himself midstream of his sentence. “You’re welcomed here.”

“Thank you,” Aramis breathes out. 

“Always.” 

“Then I should call myself truly fortunate,” Aramis says, smiling, and Porthos knows, without question, that Aramis truly believes that – that it is not just charming pretense thrown to his face 

“You know any more of that verse?” 

“Of course, love,” Aramis laughs. 

“Tell me more?” Porthos prompts, lifting his eyebrows, hopeful despite himself. 

Aramis, boldly, lifts a hand and touches Porthos’ hair – a gentle, simple touch, that nonetheless leaves Porthos both breathless and soothed. 

“ _My lover is mine, and I am his._ ” 

Porthos nods, encouraging. 

The hand shifts in his hair, and then drops away. 

“ _Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth— for your love is more delightful than wine._ ” 

Porthos looks to him for a long moment, finds Aramis looking back at him – as if it invitation. A hand touches his hair again, and Porthos echoes him, lifting his hand to slide into his hair, touches gently, lets it curl around his fingers. His heart hammers in his chest, and Aramis nods just slightly. 

So Porthos leans up and catches his mouth with his own, slants their lips together, kisses him as if still learning to breathe—

And feels Aramis’ answering breath against his lips, feels the soft curve of his smile.

**Author's Note:**

> All bible quotations come from the Song of Solomon, including the title. (Aramis was reciting them out of order, however.) 
> 
> Title: "Many waters cannot quench love; rivers cannot wash it away. If one were to give all the wealth of his house for love, it would be utterly scorned." (Song of Solomon 8:7)
> 
> "Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth— for your love is more delightful than wine." (Song of Solomon 1:2)
> 
> "My lover is mine, and I am his." (Song of Solomon 2:16)
> 
> "Place me like a seal over your heart, like a seal on your arm; for love is as strong as death, its jealousy unyielding as the grave. It burns like blazing fire, like a mighty flame." (Song of Solomon 8:6)


End file.
